


A Month of Sundays

by LaLyreDApollon



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Erik is a nervous trainwreck, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Leroux!Verse, Panic Attacks, Religious Content, Roman Catholicism, au-ish, canonically dead characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-07 07:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15213746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLyreDApollon/pseuds/LaLyreDApollon
Summary: A month, as spent between Christine Daaé and the Opera Ghost, told through four distinct instances of them promenading on a Sunday morning.





	1. From Here To Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I discovered the idiom "a month of Sundays": a long, unspecified period of time; eternity the other day, and became giddy with how perfect a title it would make for an E/C fic because "i WaNt tO hAvE a wIfE LikE eVErYbOdy eLsE aNd tAke hEr oUt oN SuNdaYs, dArOGa".
> 
> So, have something a tad more light and fluffy than my usual stuff. Or is it? xD I swear, one quarter of the total time that it took me to complete this (writing + researching) was me googling 'églises près du Bois de Boulogne'.
> 
> This is chapter 1 out of 4 (as your standard month consists of four weeks, therefore four Sundays). Partly inspired by my own panic attacks. Yeet.
> 
> Please R&R :)

In the late morning light, an unlikely twosome is walking down the Bois de Boulogne.

"We should have waited for the afternoon, the place is always packed after  _la Notre-Dame du Saint Sacrement_  has its dismissal. Which is," the man dressed in black pulls out his pocket watch, "was," he rushes to correct himself, "ten minutes ago."

"Will you please stop being so tense?" Says the woman beside him, resolute gaze roving over his covered features, as they saunter along the water.

"I am  _not_  tense." Stomach in knots, heart in mouth, said mouth dry and fingers twitching inside the pockets of his coat, he attempts to retain some semblance of mental poise. Yet she sees through him, crystal clear, like their reflection in the Lower Lake, which he is quick to turn from.

"Keep in mind, it was you who wanted this." She tightens her grip, arm in arm as they are, in an effort to reassure him. He only flinches, almost losing his footing.

"I think," he stammers, "I think that my..." he fumbles for the word, but only its Persian counterpart reaches for him. "My  _keravat*_ , I think it's too tight."

" _Your what_?" Her eyes crinkle at the corners in confusion, one eyebrow rising, freckled nose wrinkling, and he presses a palm into his masked forehead, shaking his head. He can't remember a plain, every-day word, in a language he knows better than the back of the hand that is rubbing his temple as they speak.

He can't stop stumbling. " _This_." Clicking his tongue, he gestures to the expanse of fabric that flowers from his collar and disappears inside his vest. " _This thing_. I have forgotten what it's called."

" _Ta lavallière*_." She articulates the word for his sake.

"Yes, of course, _la lavallière_." The hand from before covers his eyes, kneading the hard material of the mask. "I'm sorry, I genuinely don't know what is wrong with me today, but I swear, this thing is choking me."

"Erik." She calls, the soothing resonance of her voice alleviating the ringing hum that is starting to manifest in his ears. "You need to relax. You will collapse if you keep being so agitated."

"How many times do I have to tell you, I am  _not_ –" She covers the cavity that exposes his lips with her hand, leading to the word being muffled into its mushy twin, ' _ah-geh-taw-tawd_ '.

"Are you done?" She snaps, removing her hand.

"Christine, I swear to God–"

"God is not on your side, I paid my respects just this morning." She declares, smoothing down her skirt. "Now, tell dear Christine; why you are acting like a chicken before slaughter?"

Erik grimaces behind the mask. "Lord, what grisly turn of phrase is this?"

"One that Mama would attribute to me, whenever I was jittery before performing." She chuckles under her breath, and immediately goes on with her interrogation. "What is wrong?"

He puffs. "I have no idea. I am constantly worried that someone might see us–"

"So, what if they do?" She interrupts. "Even though it's just us and the ducks, at this early hour."

Exhaling deeply, he thumbs his collar.

"Does it still feel tight?" She halts, and turns to examine him. He nods.

Biting her lips, brisk eyes evaluating what needs to be done, she takes his gloved hand in hers, guiding him to a nearby bench and forcing him to sit down, then settling beside him.

"Your skin is suffocating, what made you muffle up like that?" She pulls off his gloves, and loosens the  _keravat,_ the _lavallière_ , whatever you wish to call it.

"I refuse to ignore the possibility of an April downpour. You know how intense these can get."

"I  _do_ , but not when the sky above is spotless!" She chides.

He straightens his spine, looking around like an alarmed deer that knows it's being hunted. "Someone's coming!"

"Calm down, all we have to do is act normal." She occupies his hand in a tight grip.

The gravel behind the trees shifts and grinds under the weight of feet.

_Quack._

Laughter bubbles out of her as the white waterbird comes into view, and he buries his face in his hands, trying to hide away the crimson tint of shame that is rising to his cheeks, fearing it will bleed through the copper.

She elbows him, her sweet, gleeful sounds drowning out the frantic bells that chime inside his head. He accompanies her with a scoff at first, which then blooms into a reluctant giggle, and a full-on head-thrown-back belly-laugh by the time the duck has neared them.

"You damnable little thing." He smiles as he steadies his breathing, as does Christine, and the two sit in silence. The duck comes closer, stares at Erik, then waddles away. The smile is instantly wiped from his lips.

He brings his knees together, and his elbows recline on them. His head follows, resting on his wrists. "It feels as if everyone can see past the mask. Even aquatic birds."

Christine leans forward. A soft palm on his left cheek, and he is facing her. "You are being paranoid. I can barely tell you're wearing it." She examines his face. "Well, almost; I can see the edges. But, unlike everyone else, I know it's there. I am certain that it will be undetectable by the rest. They won't be able to see it, let alone see  _past_  it."

It's true; he had formulated it that way, but to him, it's as if it's made of glass, all the same.

He hears the hum of pairs and pairs of feet approaching; the believers have left  _Saint Sacrement_ , and are arriving for their Sunday morning walk. And amongst them, he will lose his God anew.

The choking feeling is back for more, and he thinks his chest is burning. " _Christine_."

She hears, and  _knows_. The first wave of people, in ones and twos, or entire groups, is sallying forth in their direction.

She pulls him to his feet, and drags him towards the trees, leaving his gloves behind.

He is panting, heart thudding, feet buckling under him.

Sheathed behind the large masses of green, she grabs his shoulders. "Erik, listen to me, please."

He nods, swallowing hard.

"Breathe. From the diaphragm, the way you taught me.  _Breathe_." Vomit rises to his throat, and black is splashed along his peripheral vision. Heavy-lidded and shaking, he chokes out; "I can't."

At this point, he starts to fear a stroke. His chest is growing tighter by the second.

" _Erik_."

She clutches his heaving form, hands cementing on his back. His lips are numb, but somehow he feels her mouth through the gap in the mask, and the few particles of air that he is desperately holding on to are knocked out of him as they kiss.

His hands slowly creep around her waist, for balance more than anything, and she pulls him closer. Bodies fixed together and blending into each other behind the trees, they go unnoticed.

He can't tell how long they stay like this. He'd loathe to have to let go in order to reach for his pocket watch and check. When she releases him, he is light-headed, but this is a light-headedness distinctly different from the one before.

She smiles. And again, she  _knows_ ; she always does.

Even though his breathing has been ruthlessly assaulted, he finds that somehow, at long last, he can breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keravat (tr. Farsi): cravat, neck-tie  
> lavallière (tr. French): a fluffy cravat, essentially


	2. Their Sunday Finest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know it's a LaLyreDApollon fic when one chapter is tiny and the other is a fucking beast, amirite? I lost 1000+ words of this because I was reckless and decided to write on my phone; my battery died and I had to rewrite it and I actually think it turned out better the second time. It also turned out a little too bulky (which makes absolutely no sense in a digital context, but you know what I mean), and even though I wanted to keep the length consistent throughout all four chapters I ended up saying "fuck it" and wrote all that I wanted to depict anyway, because Erik accompanying Christine to Sunday mass was too fun a concept to ignore.
> 
> In this chapter we cover everything from religion, to faeries, to grief ladies and gentlemen and everything in between. I thought I should slather one some random topics because it is only natural that some abstract conversations take place between our favourite pairing during their walks, and they're huge dorks anyway, so yeah.
> 
> I kinda cheated here, because only the second half of it virtually consists of a promenade. But, I mean, it's still there, so it counts. On a side note, the Basilica de Notre Dame des Victoires is an actual church which is located near the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires (hence the name), which is where Christine lived according to Leroux.
> 
> Lastly, why the fuck is Catholicism so fucking weird? I was raised an Orthodox, but what the fuck, researching Catholic mass was so goddamn hard, holy shit.
> 
> Please R&R :)

"Que Dieu tout-puissant vous bénisse; le Père, le Fils et le Saint Esprit."

"The blasted altar bread got stuck between my teeth." A man dressed in black leans into the woman seated next to him in the front pews, whispering in her ear.

"Shut up." The woman mutters and acts to nudge her elbow into his side, but he dodges it with a swift swerve of his shoulder.

"I say, the Devil put it there." He grins, his face – or, the substitute of it – turning from her to look over to the priest, whose unwanted attention he has already attracted. It is not before the old pastor's owl-eyes blink exactly thrice and his thin lips slack at the corner in bewilderment that he realises the wide grin is still there. He rubs it off his face, feigning a muffled cough, only to achieve nothing; the distressed clergyman has already turned his back on the pews, seeking solace in the sacred book that rests on the altar in front of him, whose pages are known to protect against eerie presences and still-faced, grinning men in black.

Erik sighs. No one is supposed to  _grin_  during Mass, everyone knows that.

The crumb from the host that is burrowed between his molar teeth is, to say the least, maddeningly bothersome, yet only manages to come fourth in his list of current annoyances. The coarse chanting of the church's flock during the 'Kyrie Eleison' – which he had refused to partake in – the sounds emitted by the barely tuned organ and his own memories of attending Mass as a child greatly eclipsed it.

He had been mentally preparing himself for this since the moment Christine had announced he was to follow her to the Basilica de Notre Dame des Victoires this Sunday. Bear in mind, that was only three days ago – a pathetic time limit, that. He hadn't stepped foot inside a church in more than forty years;  _almost half a century,_  he had mused to himself.

Yet here he was, armed with patience, having prevailed through an entire hour of ecclesiastical hell. Nevertheless, yours truly was making poor Père Timothée so hilariously uncomfortable, it was almost entertaining. Only five minutes ago, Christine had dragged him to the altar, insisting that he took the communion. He had barely opened his mouth, for opening it too far meant that the mask's edges would show. Leaning forward in front of the pastor, who in turn had mumbled for him to "wider, my child", he had opened as far as the mask would allow. "A  _little_  wider, my child." Erik had stared at him, icy eyes and tight gape of lips stubbornly frozen in place. He felt the man shudder, then gulp audibly, before averting his gaze and practically shoving the cup into his masked face, the metal nearly colliding with his copper nose.

The wine had tasted bitter. To him, it always did. Either the Catholic Church was so utterly tasteless and the clergy had collectively agreed to supply all chapels, big and small, with wine from the world's worst vintner, or – this one being the more probable theory of the two – this wine was simply not made for a sinner's lips to savour.

The hapless priest was now rushing his words as he caught furtive glances of Erik from his place before the altar, mouthing his syllables and hastily incorporating a part of the Lord's prayer into them. "Allez, dans la paix du Christ – délivre-nous du Mal – nous rendons grâce à Dieu."  _Délivre-nous du Mal._  Deliver us from Evil.

"Amen." Erik murmurs indifferently alongside the crowd of believers that stretches about him in all directions. He rises to his feet and turns to leave, heading for the wooden door, when he sees Père Timothée staring at him once again, making the sign of the cross with only one finger on the fabric of his sleeve.

He waves it off. The part of the day that he lives for, the one that had him endure this entire farce, has finally come; the walk, with Christine, by his side.

It still feels bizarre to think the sentence all at once. He has found that allowing his brain to process it in parts work much better.

The walk,  _with Christine_ , by his side.

Except she is  _not_  by his side when he turns his head to the right, then to the left, searching for her. He looks over his shoulder, and sees her talking to the priest, the black dress that she is donning today forming a striking antithesis of colour next to his white vestments.

As he approaches them, gliding against the current of the last few people leaving the church, his hand reaching for her own but falling back to his side upon remembering that they are not alone, he hears him; "I'll pray for his soul, Christine. I appreciate your reminding me. May our Lord of peace bring him rest –  _is there something you seek here, monsieur?_ " His tone shifts from soothing to severe the moment he notices Erik, and he stretches a hand in front of Christine, as if to protect her from this demon masquerading as a human, with his wool coat and gold cufflinks.

Erik immediately takes a step back, subconsciously convinced that he is, indeed, a progeny of the Devil, and stepping any closer would result in him inadvertently opening a hole in the altar floor and dragging Christine with him to the pits of Tartarus.

"I said, is there something you seek here,  _monsieur_?" Père Timothée is so much bolder than before. Gone is the pallor that had occupied his features at the sight of this sinister individual, his voice is no longer a terrified tremor – rather, it is a most decisive exclamation of words, echoing through the church walls with stentorian clarity.

And there's the hand. Oh, the hand; fixed mid-air in front of Christine, stock-still as if supported by nails. _A man of the Lord,_  he thinks,  _ready to protect his lambs at all times, and at all costs._  Ever more so, when it's against menacing men in black that make even him get gooseflesh under his alb.

"I am..." Erik stutters momentarily, raising his hands in defense, pointing a finger in Christine's direction, then back to himself. Shrugging, he concludes; "Waiting."

"He  _is_  waiting, for  _me_." Christine affirms smiling, brushing past the clergyman's guarding hand and striding over to Erik's side. "He is a friend."

_A friend._

Père Timothée's eyes telescope into thin slits of white scleras and lustreless blue irises, one grey eyebrow laced with a few hairs of what Erik assumes to have once been brown arching so far up his forehead he almost expects it to fly off. "And your name,  _monsieur_?"

 _'_ Asmodeus, Prince of Hell, second only to Lucifer himself' is too tempting an answer, but he deems himself to have caused the man enough anguish in one day, so he plumps for his usual, short and not near as lordly title; "Erik, your reverence."

" _Erik_." His reverence rolls the name around his mouth and grimaces, as if it had got stuck between his teeth, very much like the crumb of communion bread from before. "I do remember the late Monsieur Daaé to have many friends named Erik, but I cannot know which one was you. I knew him personally, you see."

He does not even bother to  _assume_  that he is Christine's  _friend_. And it is perfectly reasonable; even with the mask on, he looks, and sounds, and  _feels_  thrice her age.  _Her father's age._

Père Timothée lowers his God's guard in addition to his own, and goes on, somewhat comforted by the fact that he and the man share an acquaintance. "I was moved to Gothenburg as a young man, and my parish was there for many years. That was where, on behalf of the dear Madame Valerius and her husband – long departed, may God rest his soul – I was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of the Daaé's."

Christine giggles. "It was us who were in luck."

"Ever the darling that you are, mademoiselle Christine. Now, if you'll excuse me–" he picks up his robes and makes his way towards the altar, "I have a christening scheduled in half an hour, so I must ask you to leave."

"Of course." Christine bends her head and kisses the ring on his finger, before turning back to Erik and interlacing her fingers with his. "We'll be on our way."

Père Timothée's eyes nearly pop out of his skull at the gesture, and he doesn't make any effort to mask the expression of disgust that is painted all over his face. Erik cannot say that he is not surprised, himself.

"You–y-you will be visiting Perros, I ah-assume?" The priest manages, fidgeting with the fabric of his stole between his age-ridged fingers.

She smiles. "The sky is dim today, and I wouldn't want to risk being caught up in a cloudburst. I intend to visit tomorrow though, should it dawn clear."

The priest only mutters bleakly as he turns from them, shaking his head and occupying himself with the organization of his altar; "Godspeed."

* * *

"Such a funny man."

"You scared him half to death!" Christine titters, smacking Erik's side.

"It was  _you_  who terrified him the most. What were you even  _thinking_ , joining our hands like that? Are you out of your mind?" He demands as they're walking down la Rue de la Banque.

" _Impulse_." She beams, batting her lashes.

He clicks his tongue, deciding it is better to digress; "He didn't take a liking to me, did he?"

"No. But he is most kind, I assure you." The steady click of her boots against the stone pavement is reassuring, like the ticking of a metronome. "I remember him debating with my father for hours on end whether the Fair Folk were a thing of the Devil. Papa had his own little theory; he always insisted that they were merely the lowest rank of angels."

He scoffs. "Your father believed in the Fair Folk?"

She turns to him, voice stiff, a flash of irritation twinkling in her eye. " _Most adamantly_."

Erik smiles. "Do  _you_  believe in the Fair Folk?"

"By extension."

" _Most adamantly_ , then?" He tilts his head to the side, looking at her, an amused smile spreading across his lips.

She blushes a pale red, her eyes falling to her feet. "Yes."

"And how could you ever not?" He laughs. "Look at yourself, walking right next to a changeling on a Sunday morning, heading for the gardens of the Palais Royal."

Her blushes turn to giggles. "Don't be so harsh on yourself. Besides, father always said that changelings have a touch of divinity in them."

He brushes the notion aside.

Silence follows them as they turn around the corner in la Rue de la Vrillière, until he takes it upon himself to smash it.

"You should have, en passant, told me about your father's commemoration. I presume that is what the jet-black dress is all about. Is it later today or-"

"I am not holding any service." She breathes. "Never have, never will. I simply pray for him, and ask Père Timothée to send a blessing his way. It was  _his_  wish that it would be so." Taking a large step to avoid a puddle of water formed by an old woman washing her windows nearby, she turns to look at him. "But I hoped that you would come with me today. And you did, even if you did not know."

"I did." He admits. Had he known, he would have stayed away. He was convinced that the man would be turning in his grave just now, because  _he_ , who had exploited his tales and unsophisticated violin tunes, and his daughter's grief, had followed her to the house of the Lord to honour his memory - the same memory he had taken merciless advantage of.

"How long has it been?"

"Four years." Her pace slows down. "On this exact day, four years ago, he passed. And today feels just like then, you know - the day was dull and murky, just as it is now." Looking up at the sky, garlanded with dark, thick clouds, she whispers. "It is as if I am living his death all over again."

He tries not to notice the teardrops that have begun running tediously down her cheeks. "You're beautiful in black, do you know that?"

She chokes on his words, and slowly turns to bury her face in his coat. He halts, shudders racing through him, head to toe.

"Black suits you. Mourning does not." He says softly, rubbing the nape of her neck, while she shakes in mute whimpering.

"I  _miss_  him, Erik. How can I ever not mourn for him?" Her short-winded sobbing has grown more intense. "Have you never lost a parent?"

He grows stiff.

"Not really."

Her head retreats from his chest, and she looks up at him, eyes red and lashes heavy with tears. Her brows are knit together. "What is  _that_  supposed to mean?"

"I've been alone since the start. I never knew my father." He clears his throat. "My mother and I weren't on the best of terms. I haven't seen her in ages." Christine is staring at him keenly, puffy eyes peering deep into the holes of the mask.

"She might as well be dead by now." He ponders, and the sky blares above him.

Her breath hitches. "How can you say that with such- such  _indifference_?" She spits the word like it is the eighth mortal sin.

"There is nothing to mourn for, Christine. I suppose-" The clouds boom a second time, and the first few dribbles of rainwater land on his hat, with silent clinking sounds to announce their arrival. "I suppose I don't feel enough for her to mourn her death. I barely remember her."

He is lying. He remembers her too clearly, as if he had just run into her on the street. The pitch-black locks that crowned her head, the astute eyes, the hard line of her lips; he remembers it all. But Christine doesn't need to know.

"I don't remember my mother, either." She confesses. "I always feel guilty, foisting such neglect on her soul. I was six when she passed, and father never told me where she was buried. I never asked - perhaps it was for the better."

His curiosity is stirred. "What happened to her?" He is an idiot to ask such questions, but this is the first time he hears her talk about her mother. He has heard the story of her father's death many times over; their cabin and the brass bed, and the chrysanthemums in the vase by the window that she had gathered herself the day before, his shallow breathing and how his chest had come to a sudden standstill. But her mother; he had almost forgotten she had to have existed. Her constant allusions to her father had coaxed him into supposing she was a product of parthenogenesis.

"At first, it was but a diffident cold, I'd heard my father say." She begins. "But the fever wouldn't drop, and she was always pushing against her blankets; she was convinced that she was burning from the inside. Father never allowed me to go near her. I would just-" she sniffles, shattering momentarily, then recomposing herself, "I would just stand near the door, staring at her, but she never saw me; she was always gazing out to the sea."

The rain is pouring in violent bursts. Christine doesn't seem to notice.

"One morning, she simply didn't rise. That was all. I remember her funeral, and the faces of the people who came - about forty or so, she was well-beloved. I remember their names. I even remember the details on her coffin." She looks at him, her features carved into an impression of sheer despair. "But her face is a blur, Erik!"

He has stayed silent for so long listening to her, he fancies he has almost forgotten how to speak. A raindrop lands on his hand, rousing him from the daze. "Maybe it is better, not remembering." He tightens the embrace.

She resumes, ignoring him. "When we moved to Gothenburg two years after her death, her memory was like- like something we left behind, you know? Like something that was too heavy, too  _impotent_  to take with us." Her sobbing is more aggressive than the storm, more frenzied than any northern blizzard. "I had almost  _forgotten_  about her. Everyone tells me I look exactly like her, but I don't remember her at all! I  _want_  to remember, I  _want_  to be able to confirm their claims!  _But I can't!_  And it hurts Erik, _it hurts so much!_ "

More raw tears are bursting forth, like river water through a cracked dam. He tucks her under his coat, silently rocking her back and forth, occasionally running a finger through her moist curls, while she is clutching at the fabric of his vest with both hands.

His shirt is soaked by the time she pulls away. It is only the dampness of her tears that he feels, the rain is hardly touching him. She is drawing acute breaths in an effort to recover, and Erik pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbing it across her wet cheeks. It is soaked with rain before it can even absorb her sorrow.

Christine's eyes are fuzzy through the crying, but she doesn't fail to see the single tear that is balancing on his lower eyelid. "Why are  _you_  crying?" Her face lights up with a low-spirited smile - a smile, nonetheless.

"It's only rainwater." He hardly bothers to think up a decent excuse, holding her firmly in his hands until the endmost convulsions of her outburst cease. "Let us go under the sheds before our clothes become too heavy to walk in. We wouldn't want that lovely dress of yours to be ruined now, would we?" He kisses her forehead, smiling dimly against her hairline.

She laughs away the last few tears that stain her face as she follows him to the right side of the street. Owing to the lack of an umbrella, it takes them twice the time it should to reach the gardens of the Palais Royal, as they glide from side to side, wherever the buildings are blessed with an awning.

The sun has returned by noon, and the pavements have dried. A man dressed in black is seated outside the little café in the Royal's gardens. Over her tea, the woman opposite him asks; "Will you accompany me to Perros tomorrow?"

Over his, he replies; "Of course I will."


End file.
